Unspeakable Words

by Sarah Madison

  “If you call me Lt. Provenza, I will hurt you.” Jerry snorted as he held open the door to the café. “I think you’ve been watching way too much television, you know.”

  THEY’D taken a break and gone back to the apartment after breakfast. Flynn had become more withdrawn the longer they’d spent out, and he looked exhausted.

  “People are really sick bastards,” he said as they reentered the apartment. He flopped down on the couch, tossing his sunglasses onto the coffee table. Oliver lifted his head for a long stare but didn’t move from his position on the end of the sofa.

  “You’ve been an agent for what? Ten? Twelve years? And you’re just figuring this out now?”

  “I didn’t know it then. Not like I do now.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that.

  Jerry sat down at his desk and opened the online laptop, waking it up and settling in for another session of “find the artifact.” He made a mental note to check on Monday to see if the man from the queue had a record of domestic violence and to e-mail his friend Deidre at the shelter for advice.

  Within a few minutes, Flynn was hanging over his shoulder. “What did you find?” he asked, pulling up a chair and turning it around to straddle it while sitting down next to Jerry. He rested his forearms along the back of the chair as he leaned in to look at the screen.

  “Another restricted website.” Jerry frowned. “I suppose we could see about getting clearance….”

  “Then someone might start asking why we’re so interested. Why not take a different approach? What about the patron who donated the thing in the first place? Where’d it come from?”

  “I already did that.” Jerry pulled up the obituary notice. A photo of a bouffant-haired woman, circa 1960, appeared on the screen. “Caroline DeVille was an amateur archeologist and collector of antiquities. Unfortunately, she was also a shoddy bookkeeper. The piece in question is described as a trinket box, of unknown origin or design, brought back from a trip to Egypt in 1952. There’s no other information listed. The entire collection was passed down to her grandson on her death. He in turn donated it to the Weir last week. I asked him about it. He’d never seen any of the collection except during visits to her home, and he really seemed put out that a bunch of moldy artifacts was all he inherited.”

  “Trinket box, my ass,” Flynn said with derision. “I wonder if this was the exhibit that was giving Marsden trouble?”

  “I also asked about that. Seems that there was some question on the part of the board as to whether the collection should even be accepted, given the provenance of so many pieces couldn’t be proved. However, the Weir is not so big that it can afford to toss out bequests.”

  “None of which is likely to have any bearing on Marsden’s death.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Jerry knew that he and Flynn both were mentally reviewing the evidence so far. The text they’d received had been sent after Marsden was already dead; the cell had been wiped of prints. The door had been set to automatically lock behind them once they’d exited the building. Marsden had been strangled from behind and posed under the glass case hurriedly by someone wearing gloves. A nearby display had been stripped of artificial flowers in order to spread them over her body. It had all the marks of a hastily composed copycat scene. The killer may or may not have been in the building while they were there.

  “I need to talk to the people in her life. Somewhere in the background was a person she was afraid of,” Flynn said.

  “But not necessarily the GFT killer. Is there anyone who’d have a vested interest in you coming back to this area?”

  Flynn sighed and stood up, abandoning the chair. “I don’t think this is aimed at me. I think Marsden wanted to speak with me or King directly but only because she knew we were associated with the case. Someone was scaring her, and she thought this person was a killer. She was right, just not the killer she thought it was. I think whoever murdered her wants us to think it’s the GFT killer, because they themselves have an alibi for those murders, and it would send us off in a totally harmless direction. No, there was something else that Marsden had uncovered, only she didn’t know it yet. And that person didn’t want us to get too close to them.”

  “Murder isn’t a very subtle way of deflecting attention.” Jerry raised an eyebrow at Flynn, who was pacing around the room.

  “No, in this case, it’s either an act of desperation or arrogance. One or the other. It’s up to us to figure out which.”

  “You want to go to the museum.” Jerry made it a statement, not a question.

  “What are you, a mind reader?” Flynn grinned.

  “STOP the car! Stop the car!” Flynn pounded on the dash and unbuckled the seatbelt even as Jerry screeched to a halt.

  The car behind them honked angrily as Flynn vaulted out of the car and ran back down the sidewalk, leaving the passenger door open. Jerry looked back over his shoulder, grimaced, and pulled up onto the sidewalk. He sprang out of the car, flashing his badge at an open-mouthed couple, gawking at him. “Federal agents,” he barked. “This is an emergency!”

  He rounded the front of the car, slamming the door shut, and pressed the automatic lock on his key ring as he ran after Flynn. He reached the narrow alleyway in which he’d seen Flynn disappear and cursed as he saw Flynn running farther ahead. He followed in hot pursuit, heaving himself up the chain-link fence at the end of the alley and scrabbling over the top. He felt the catch and tear of denim as he dropped, and he cursed again.

  When he caught up with Flynn, the scene in front of him took his breath away. The small dirt lot was littered with broken bottles, empty foam cups, and cigarette butts. A young kid was cringing on the ground, tears streaking down his face. Flynn was holding another child by the shoulder, pinning him to the wall. The smell of gasoline was sharp in the air.

  At Jerry’s approach, the boy on the ground got up and ran, fists and legs pumping like a pinwheel as he scrambled out of the lot. The boy dangling in Flynn’s grip was pale; wide, dark eyes stared back at Flynn in fear.

  “Jesus, Flynn, let him go,” Jerry breathed, afraid for Flynn’s sanity.

  “They were going to fucking torch a cat,” Flynn snarled, never taking his eyes off the kid. “You think that’s cool?” he said to the kid, his expression one of smiling disdain.

  It was the scariest thing that Jerry had ever seen. “John, please.”

  “I know who you are,” Flynn said in a silky tone, almost too low for Jerry to hear. “I know what you’re afraid of. You hurt another animal or person, and I will find you.”

  He dropped the kid, who landed in the dirt on his hands and knees. Jerry thought the boy might actually puke. He looked up at Flynn and fell back on his rump, scooting away until he had room to get to his feet and run.

  Flynn stood watching him as though he could bore holes into him with his eyes.

  “Oh jeez.” Jerry now saw the sodden little body lying behind the trashcan, the orange-striped fur soaked with gasoline. He took off his jacket and wrapped the kitten in it. “Do you think it’s still alive?” he asked, standing and cradling the kitten when Flynn approached.

  “Of course,” Flynn said bitterly. “What’s the fun in torching it if it’s dead?”

  Jerry looked up at Flynn, and the expression on his face was painful to see. “Come on, we need to find a vet.”

  It seemed to take a lot longer to reach the car on the way back. For one thing, there was the difficulty of negotiating the fence with the kitten. Jerry could feel Flynn’s thundering silence, and he chose to ignore it, concentrating on the weak rise and fall of breath in the little body he held.

  Back at the car, Flynn only spoke the one time. “Kids who torture animals often grow up to be serial killers.”

  Jerry didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He handed the jacketful of kitten to Flynn.

  He drove to the nearest animal emergency clinic, knowing that Oliver’s vet was already closed for the day. Flynn fished Jerr
y’s cell out of the jacket pocket, finding the number for the vet clinic, and phoned ahead to warn them they were on the way. Jerry kept glancing at the kitten as he drove. It continued to lie on its side, its eyes closed.

  The staff at the animal ER couldn’t have been nicer. Jerry pulled out his charge card and told them to spare no expense. The tech whisked the kitten away, murmuring over it when she heard under what circumstances it had been found. They waited until a woman who looked too young to be a vet came to speak with them.

  She was blonde, with baby-fine, straight hair and light-blue glasses. “Okay, we’ve bathed your kitten in Dawn to remove the gasoline and started an IV and supplemental oxygen. Petroleum products are fairly toxic to cats. Hopefully we got it off before too much was absorbed. Also, we can’t tell just yet if there’s been any neurological damage. We’ll need to do some radiographs once the kitten is a bit more stable.”

  “Damage?” Jerry echoed.

  “The kitten has probably been beaten,” she said gently. “They must have done something to subdue her.”

  “Her.” Jerry blinked, exchanging an agonized look with Flynn. Such a small little creature, yet she had already wrapped herself around his heart. “Will she make it?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” the vet said briskly, in the manner of someone who would like to get back to work. “Leave her with me. We’ll see what we can do. You can call to check on her later, but right now, no news is good news.”

  They rode in silence back to the apartment. When they entered, Flynn went straight to the couch and sat down, head in his hands. Jerry toed off his shoes at the door and took a seat by the window. It was starting to cloud up; a storm was coming in.

  Oliver came trotting into the room and jumped up on the couch. He came within a foot of Flynn, sat down, and stared at him.

  God, Jerry thought, I could really use a drink. Flynn looked up.

  “You ruined your clothing over that kitten.”

  Jerry fingered the hole in his new jeans and shrugged. “They’re just clothes.”

  He could tell by Flynn’s expression that he wasn’t buying it. I’m not a clothes horse, he thought with a frown.

  Flynn, however, wasn’t done. “The vet thinks we’re a couple.”

  “Sorry,” Jerry said. Hadn’t he apologized for this once already today?

  “Don’t be. Apparently, according to her, gay couples make the best pet owners, and she was really happy we intervened on the kitten’s behalf. She’s planning to give you a huge discount on your bill, despite the fact that she works off commission.”

  “See,” Jerry said, knowing his smile must be pretty anemic. “Not everyone is evil.”

  “I wanted to kill that kid.” Flynn turned his head so he could see Jerry, could see his expression, though why he felt this was necessary, Jerry wasn’t sure. He appreciated it just the same. “I wanted it so bad. I could almost convince myself it was the right thing to do.”

  John. He didn’t even know what he was feeling himself; he only hoped Flynn could make sense of it.

  “I don’t know that I can do this, Jerry.” His voice was quiet, almost broken.

  Jerry stood up. “You just need a break. You need to rest. This morning has been… well, overwhelming. How is it that you could pick up that kid from so far away anyway?”

  “I dunno,” Flynn said wearily. “I guess strong emotions travel farther.”

  Jerry just nodded. Made sense to him, always providing he’d decided to believe in telepathy in the first place. “Get some rest,” he suggested. “Take a nap. I am.”

  He walked back into his bedroom, deliberately leaving Flynn alone.

  HE AWOKE abruptly, startled into wakefulness by the sensation of a heavy weight on his chest, suffocating him. He held his breath for a second, until he realized Oliver was sitting on his chest, staring at him. “Shove off,” he said to the cat. “Jeez, you’re heavier than you look. It’s nowhere near dinnertime, beast.”

  Oliver stared at him so intently that Jerry felt like he should get up. When he began to move, the cat jumped off the bed and ran into the other room. Uneasily, Jerry got to his feet and followed.

  “Hey, just in time!” Flynn said as Jerry walked into the living room. “Snitch,” he said to the cat, who flicked his tail a few times.

  “What’s going on?” Jerry took in the open bag on the floor, the bottle of Crown Royal on the coffee table, the way that Flynn was tossing clothes in the bag. Rain lashed at the big bay window, the whole world outside watery and gray. The atmosphere in the room felt very similar to the storm outside.

  “What does it look like? I’m outta here. I’m headed back to Washington.” He threw his track shoes into the bag with unnecessary force and picked up a heavy tumbler from the table, taking a long pull at the amber liquid.

  Oh shit. “Flynn…,” he began.

  “Don’t ‘Flynn’ me,” Flynn snapped.

  “John,” Jerry said sharply, adding a stern focus automatically before he’d had time to think about it. “Why are you headed back to Washington? And just how do you plan to get there?” He tried to envision Flynn sitting on a commuter plane for hours without having a meltdown and failed miserably.

  “I don’t need your protection!” Flynn set the tumbler down with a thump. He rubbed his forehead briefly. “I’m beginning to understand why a person would choose the oblivion of alcohol. Not that it’s working. If anything, it’s making it worse. Too much bleed-through. Like there’re bees in the walls.” He paused and then shot Jerry an incredibly sexy glance up from underneath a fringe of hair. A slow smile stole across his face. “Soundproof.” His voice was taunting.

  “What do you plan to do in Washington? Did something come up?” Save your shit for someone who can be manipulated a little more easily.

  “Did something come up?” Flynn raised both eyebrows incredulously. “I became telepathic. That’s what came up. I’ve got a cold case to go look at.”

  Oh no. “John, you can’t, you’re not ready. You need to stay here and see this one through first. You need to master this skill, learn to control it. You need to know that you can go after a conviction and make it stick before you try to use this gift or whatever you call it to find your sister’s killer.”

  “Who said anything about a conviction?” Flynn’s voice was shuttered and dark, like his face. “Maybe I don’t need a conviction. Maybe I don’t want a conviction.” He spat the word.

  Yes. Yes, you do. I know you. This isn’t you. You’re the man who needs to bring criminals to justice. Fine. I’ll help you. But we do this within the law because I know, deep down, that’s the way you want it too.

  Flynn’s face crumpled, and he sat down heavily on the couch. Jerry cautiously went over to sit down beside him, tucking one leg underneath him so that Jerry could face him. Flynn said nothing for a long while, staring sightlessly at the television screen until he finally reached slowly for the remote and turned it on.

  A repeat of CSI: Miami was on. Jerry waited until they’d been watching about five minutes, and then he began to make fun of Horatio Caine in his head. Wait for it, wait for it…. Okay, now he whips off the sunglasses. Now he makes the really pithy one-liner….

  Flynn reached out and pushed at his shoulder. Jerry snickered. Oliver jumped up on the couch and grumpily turned in a circle, stomping down the pillow in between them until he settled on it. Jerry wondered how he’d feel about a kitten.

  “So, what’s it like, being gay and in the FBI?” Flynn asked during one of the commercial breaks. “And why men? I mean, what’s the point?”

  He sounded genuinely curious, if a little bit buzzed. He looked at the bottle on the table and back at Jerry’s face. “I really haven’t had all that much.”

  Just enough to make you chatty. Jerry thought about Flynn’s question. “The bureau wasn’t very receptive to gays prior to the early 1990s,” he said slowly. “A discrimination lawsuit forced the FBI to revamp its stated policy toward homosexuals. We’re no
longer deemed a security threat.” Jerry knew his smile was bitter. “That doesn’t mean that we’re treated the same. It is a big boys’ club after all.”

  “And girls really don’t do it for you?” Flynn looked puzzled. He probably got turned on by the sight of a woman’s breasts, taut nipples peaking at his admiration, the soft curve from waist to her hip, the feel of smooth, silky legs against his skin.

  Jerry shrugged. How could he explain? He could admire those characteristics in a pretty woman, and yet feel none of the desire for her that the sight of a well-developed bicep could do for him. There was something in the hard planes of another man’s body, the way the hair tapered down from chest to belly and groin. The strength of male muscles and the way they moved and felt beneath his hands. The scent of masculine skin, the rasp of stubble against his jaw and throat, the way the smooth head of a cock fit perfectly into his mouth. How it felt to fold over a lover’s back, pushing up against him, lining up his cock with his other hand placed on a strong hip, feeling the perfect tightness as he pushed within….

  Flynn dropped his jaw. He’d been sitting slack on the couch, legs spread open wide. “Okay, TMI, Jer.” He cleared his throat and shifted subtly, hand automatically dropping to his crotch before redirecting to rest on his thigh. His eyes appeared black in the lamplight, and his nostrils flared again. If Jerry wasn’t mistaken, that was a fairly impressive erection couched in his jeans as well. Something palpable hung in the room between them, and a heated flush appeared across Flynn’s cheekbones. His fingers flexed slightly on his thigh.

  “You asked,” Jerry said, conscious of the little note of smugness in his voice. Though it had been a while since he’d felt that way about anyone. Well, not counting present company. He wasn’t the clubbing type; he lived quietly. He just didn’t meet all that many people outside work, and most of the people he met there were having the worst day of their life by virtue of the fact that he was present.